


Steps

by ceywoozle



Series: The Great Sherlock RP Game [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I don't know what else to say, john is a stubborn ass, sherlock is also a stubborn ass, the great sherlock rp game, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are back from the hospital after John's been stabbed. There's still a few things that need resolving, however, which is pretty well par for the course with these two. They're both idiots, they yell a bit, and old wounds are reopened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps

“No.”

Sherlock stares at him, wide-eyed and perplexed.

“What do you mean _no?_ ”

He looks exhausted, his black hair limp and dishevelled, falling unheeded into eyes red-rimmed and circled with bruises and bright, too bright, frantic and glazed and wide. John wants to hold him, wants to touch him, wants to tell him that it's okay, that everything is okay. But he can't because he is clutching the handrail at the bottom of the seventeen steps with one hand and trying to fend Sherlock off with the other. He is so tired and he doesn't have the energy for this right now.

“I mean,” John says, making his voice firm, “No.”

“You can't walk up the steps on your own.”

“Yes. I can.” Which is true, but every second he stands here, arguing with the most obstinate man he knows it becomes less and less likely. He needs to lay down. He needs to sleep. He needs the medication that Sherlock has stuffed in the pocket of his Belstaff and even now John can see the white paper of the bag sticking out and he wishes he had the will to snatch it away. He can feel the sharper pain begin to edge around to the front of his consciousness, slowly beginning to override the wider ache of exhaustion that encompasses the rest of him, a feeling he remembers and that always takes so long to go away. The sutures on his stomach catch on the loose cotton of the tshirt he wears and it feels uncomfortable even though it doesn't actually hurt and he resists the urge to pull his stomach inwards, away from the clinging threads of the material.

But even that Sherlock catches, that miniscule grimace of discomfort, and his sharp eyes are narrowed and searching, his hands already twitching towards John, and John has to hold up a quick hand which sends a lance of pain through his abdomen.

“Stop. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine.” There's something fearful in his eyes, hidden by the mulish set of his features and everything in John aches for him. Everything in John wants to make it go away, that fear, that panic. But he can't right now. He doesn't have the energy or the concentration. He just wants to get upstairs without tearing his sutures or straining the barely healed wound and that's not going to happen with Sherlock standing guard over the stairs like a bloody bulldog with a bone between his teeth.

“Fine,” John sighs. “I'm not fine. But I will be. I'll be fine. But only if you let me go upstairs and go to bed.”

“Not on your own.”

“You're not carrying me, Sherlock.”

“I'll be careful.”

“It has nothing to do with being careful.”

“You don't trust me.”

The accusation, more than half serious, thrown between them like a stone, leaves a ripple of silence in its wake. John is cursing inwardly, because he can't do this, not now. He's so tired.

“This has nothing to do with whether I trust you.”

“Yes, but you don't.”

The sigh that John lets out is almost a snarl because he's tired, he's tired of this argument, he's tired of everything right now and he just wants to go to bed. “Alright, fine. I don't trust you. Are you happy? Will you let me go up the bloody stairs now? You've fucking won. Does that mean we can stop talking about this?”

The look of hurt on Sherlock face is utterly involuntarily and gone in an instant. Barely a breath and then the mask is up, cold and familiar, an expression that John knows far better than he could ever want to know anything. And it's his fault it's there, of course it's his fault. It's usually his fault but fuck he just needs to sleep. He doesn't have enough patience for this. He probably never _will_ have enough patience for this. He has no idea what he's doing. He has no idea why either of them ever thought this was a good idea. Sherlock—emotionally underdeveloped, both too trusting and not nearly trusting enough—and John—brusque, intolerant, impatient, untrusting, wary—are the exact opposite of how a healthy relationship could ever work. He still has no idea how he ever got chosen in the first place, what happened when Sherlock saw him and decided that here, of everyone in the world, was the person he could hand over the care of his broken heart to.

But he was wrong. He is sometimes. And John knows that this was one of those times. That John isn't the kind of person who can be trusted with this burden.

And he needs to say this—he needs to say _all_ of this—but he thinks of walking away again. He thinks of leaving this man, this insane, mad, glorious man, and everything in him clenches in preparation of the tearing that that that parting will create. Something physical and unfixable.

But he's not good enough for this relationship. He's not _well_ enough. There is something in him, some vital thing that has sickened, years ago had withered up and fallen inwards, encased by the solidity of it's own damaged shell, and John doesn't know if he will ever be healthy again, if he will ever be capable of being what anyone needs ever again.

“Sherlock—”

But it's too late, because Sherlock, shoulders stiff, face blank, hass already turned around and walked up the stairs. And John is alone and the way, finally, is clear. But standing still with one hand on the railing, he doesn't know anymore if he'll make it up.

He has to, of course. He hasn't give himself much choice, has he?

The first step is fine. He holds himself straight, trying to keep from tensing up, but it's impossible because his whole body is shaking.

The second step is harder, a sudden lance of pain through his entire torso that makes him grunt with the effort.

For the third step he is grasping the rail with both hands, trying to balance the support of his arms without using the tattered muscles in his stomach.

It is on the fourth step that the pain lancing through him has nothing to do with his stab wound. From below his knee and right up to his hip, familiar and terrifying and annoying as hell because he can feel it as his leg crumples beneath him and he pitches forward, the sudden stretch of his arms, the seizing of every muscle as his body works to reestablish its lost balance and he feels the tearing of skin and the sudden blooming of something wet and warm even as his chin hits the edge of the step and the noise in his own head is deafening. He doesn't know how it happens but when he is able to see again he is on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and it's hard to breathe and his whole body is screaming at him, but all he cares about is the seeping wetness on his shirt and the hand that suddenly appears to press down on it, coming away red.

“Idiot. You fucking idiot.”

John gives a muffled grunt as the hand on his stomach presses down too hard and immediately the pressure is lightening.

“You fucking idiot,” Sherlock says again, but softer, the panic there once more and John, his head in that familiar lap, looks at that face, riddled with anger, with frustration, with fear.

“Why?” John groans.

Sherlock is frowning but his eyes are fixed on his hand, holding down the bleeding wound on John's abdomen. “Stop talking. You shouldn't talk.”

“Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John.”

“I'm fine.”

_“You're not fine!”_

He screams it and John's teeth snap shut with an audible click in his pounding head. The silence that comes after is inundated with panting breaths and the rush of blood in John's ears.

“No,” he says. Finally. Firmly. “I'm sorry.”

 _“Fucking_ idiot,” Sherlock snarls.

“I know.”

“Why do you have to be so fucking ordinary. Why do you have to act like you're an imbecile, like every other idiot out there when we both fucking know better.”

“Because I am, you wanker. I'm fucking ordinary. What the fuck do you expect?”

“No, you're not. You're bloody not. Why do you have to be so _stupid?”_

“Because everyone is stupid compared to you. Everyone is ordinary. No one is good enough. _I'm_ not good enough. Even you knew it when you left me behind, because you knew I couldn't be trusted, because you knew I was useless. And I _am_ fucking useless. And it's not your fault. It's not, I swear, I'm so sorry. This isn't your fault. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. Fucking Janine. That whole stupid argument. The fact that you don't even know how long—That you thought I wouldn't want—Jesus, Sherlock. I thought you would never want me. I didn't think you could—Fuck. You're not like everyone else and that's okay. I don't want you to change. Just. God. I can't. I'm so stupid. I can't keep up. It's not as easy for me. I'm still angry. I'm fucking terrified. That I'll wake up and you'll be gone because I'm _not._ Fast enough, or clever enough, or good enough, and it's not your fault. It's not even your fucking fault. What the hell am I even doing with you.”

And he's crying. He's bloody crying again. He hates this, whatever this is, whatever he's turned into since starting this. This. This. Insanity. Stupidity. Madness. Perfection.

And Sherlock is staring at him, anger and frustration and fear. “You. _Idiot._ If you ever. _If you ever.”_

But he doesn't say anything else, can't, because he is suddenly ducking down and pressing his lips hard against John's, not even kissing just breathing, a bruising pressure that means neither of them can talk and John can taste the hospital on him still, the taste of drugs and disinfectant that will take days to wash off and John wants to be here for all of them, wants to watch the soap and the water sluice them away. And at the same time he wants to curl up in the corner of the bathtub with the shower running over him because it's too much and it's not enough and he still doesn't know if he's strong enough for this but it matters less right now, against the tympani of pain that comes with the thought of losing him.

“I'm sorry,” he breathes against those lips and Sherlock pulls away, eyes wide and too bright.

“No. Shut up. Just shut up. What do you want me to say, John. Tell me what you want me to say and I'll say it. But if you won't believe it anyway then I don't know what the point is.”

“I'm trying.”

“Try fucking harder. Because you're not walking out that door, not without me.” He stops. Frowns. “Well. Unless you need to. Obviously you'll need to leave without me at some point, and I will need to leave without you and I don't expect you to stay in the flat waiting until I come back. You can do the shopping, of course. And for cases. And the clinic, of course. But only if you promise to come back.” His frown suddenly deepens. “Well,” he continues, scowling slightly. “Unless we've moved somewhere else. Then obviously we'll be going together and you won't need to come back, then.”

“Moved?” John asks somewhat faintly.

Sherlock glances down at him in disdain. “Don't be stupid, John. We can't do this forever. You'll get stabbed again or something equally idiotic.”

“Yes, well, it wasn't bloody intentional.”

“Doesn't matter. You should know better.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“I love you, you bloody git.”

And the look on Sherlock's face, the sudden softening, the flicker of his eyes from blue into something darker, warmer, as he bends again, his face beside John's and John can feel his breath against his cheek. “John,” Sherlock says, and John can read that word now, that single syllable in Sherlock's faint voice. He knows every nuance and ache inside that single sound and he twists his fingers around Sherlock's and holds them to his mouth and breathes in the scent of that skin, still there beneath the stench of the hospital.

“Never leave,” John says into those fingers. “Never leave again.”

And Sherlock shakes his head and presses his face closer to John's neck and says “This is actually impossible for the reasons I've already outline, as well, by nature we will both, one day, die. However, I understand what you're saying and never, John. Never. I will never leave.”

“Good. Because I think you need to take me to hospital.”

“Don't be an idiot, I called an ambulance while you were knocked out on the bottom of the stairs due to you own stupidity.”

“Jesus Christ. I don't need a bloody ambulance, Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John."

 


End file.
